‘You’ll have lunch with the boss—the breakfast room’s the third door on the left, off the hall.’ The housekeeper put the bags down at the side of the bed. ‘He’ll give you instructions on what he wants you to do, of course. But if there’s anything else you need, you just let me know.’
‘Thank you. It’s Ms Penny, isn’t it?’
Really, she had to get a grip, not go to pieces simply because she’d be using her old room for a night or two. She made herself smile, walk through the door instead of hovering like someone being urged to enter a chamber of horrors! For pity’s sake, she didn’t have to remember if she didn’t want to!
‘Call me Linda. I only come over Ms-ish when I’m on my dignity!’ A disarming grin then a square, capable hand was extended and was taken.
‘And I’m Caroline. Tell me, is Mr Dexter staying too, or is this a flying visit?’ She hoped it was the latter, but she wouldn’t put money on it.
‘Staying, as far as I know. He comes and goes. Usually he just drops by from time to time to keep an eye on work in progress. But this time he arrived with a heap of luggage. Now…’ a quick glance at the man-sized watch she wore ‘…I’ll get lunch on the table. It’s cold; I’m not much of a hand when it comes to cooking. Admin’s my line and there won’t be a cook in residence for another month, so you’re going to have to take pot luck, I’m afraid.’
A live-in cook as well as a housekeeper to ensure the smooth day-to-day running of the house. Dexter must have decided to make Langley Hayes his permanent home she mused as Linda left the room. Showing that the wild, penniless youngster could lord it over the village just as her father had done? Only in better style, with far more money to throw around.
Sucking her lower lip between her teeth Caroline methodically began to unpack. In a way she couldn’t blame Dexter for what he was doing. Brought up by his mother—a rather fearsome woman, she remembered—paying a small rent for the dubious delights of living in a near derelict cottage on her father’s estate which no one else would dream of inhabiting, the unconventional pair had been looked down on by the majority of the villagers. It would take a strong-minded man to resist the temptation to come back and display his new-found affluence.
Not that his motives interested her, of course. They didn’t. Her only concern was getting the job done and getting back to London.
Aware of the passage of time, she squashed the childish impulse to refuse to go down to lunch at all. Refusing to face problems wasn’t her style.
And he was a problem, she admitted as she opened the breakfast-room door a few minutes later. He was waiting for her, his back to the tall window that framed a view of newly manicured parkland. Tall, tough, beautifully built, even more compellingly handsome than he had been twelve years ago.
But there was something missing. There was no sign of the former tenderness, or the sexily inviting smile that had captivated her, had bound her to him during that lost, lazy, loving summer. The man he had become was arrogant, his slight smile insolent, the dark glitter of his eyes speaking of derision overlaid with the bleak menace of an anger she couldn’t understand. If anyone had the right to be angry it was she.
‘So you decided not to ask for a tray in your room. Bravo!’
The nerve-pricking insolence deepened his smile. Caroline went very still. This had to stop, this needling. She opened her mouth to tell him as much but her lips remained parted and silent as he gestured with one finely boned, strong hand, ‘Shall we eat?’
The small circular table had been haphazardly set with earthenware plates of cold-cut roasts and uninspired salads. But there was wine, an excellent muscat, she noted as she reluctantly took her place, vowing not to touch a drop. She needed to keep a clear head when dealing with the man who carried such an aura of danger.
She shivered suddenly and if she’d hoped she could keep that betraying reaction to herself she was doomed to disappointment.
‘Cold?’ An upwards twitch of one straight black brow. ‘I thought it was unseasonably warm for mid-April.’ He lifted the wine from the ice bucket, but she quickly placed her hand over her glass.
‘No?’ He poured sparingly for himself, his movements deft, undeniably pleasing. ‘Then do help yourself—I think we’ve been given beef.’ A semi-humorous glance at her pale, set features. ‘And I apologise for the cheap plates and cutlery. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Your father must have sold all the family silver along with the Royal Worcester.’
They’d eaten from Minton, not Worcester, the pieces mismatched but beautiful, the silver flatware heavy, with richly decorated handles. She felt colour stain the skin that covered her cheekbones.
‘Cut it out!’ she ground out unthinkingly, her lips tightening at his undisguised taunt. She hadn’t meant to rise, had decided to ignore any sly jibes coming from him, but it hadn’t happened; she hadn’t been able to help herself.
Her hands knotted together in her lap, she added heatedly, ‘I know why you wanted me to come here, so let’s take it as read, shall we? Then perhaps I can get on with the work you hired me for.’
The urge to get to her feet and walk out of this room was strong. But she wouldn’t do it; it would be another display of regrettable temperament, letting him know just how easily he could get to her.
So she sat mutinously still, hoping her features displayed nothing but boredom now. Until he leant back, one arm looping over the back of his chair, lazy mockery in his dark velvet voice.
‘So you tell me—why did I want you here?’
Anger kicked inside her again and she said goodbye to all her remaining control for the first time in years, huge, thickly lashed violet eyes snapping as they clashed with the black enigma of his. ‘Because my father called you the scum of the earth.’ She recalled his exact words, spoken contemptuously so long ago. ‘You stole from him, you were a danger to the morals of the village girls—’
That didn’t hurt her, not now, not after so many years! How could it?
‘You lived in squalor. So when father died, in debt, and you were able to buy up his property, you decided to drag me here and rub my nose in it!’
Suddenly running out of steam she sagged back. Since his callous betrayal of her younger self she’d learned not to have strong emotions, certainly not blind, unthinking anger. Still, she supposed, it was better said than not. Bottled anger festered, left scars.
‘Wrong,’ he said lightly, his long mouth twitching unforgivably, her tirade and character assassination not causing him a moment’s discomfiture. ‘But interesting. My mother and I lived in squalor because when we arrived in the village we couldn’t afford anything else and it gave your father a very small income while the cottage was in the process of falling down.
‘And as for stealing from him…’ long fingers played with the stem of his wine glass, the dark, hypnotic depths of his eyes holding hers ‘…I was fourteen when we came here and was under the mistaken impression that the trout in the stream that ran behind our hovel were free for the taking. Your father put me right with the aid of a rather threatening shotgun.
‘That said…’ his mouth hardened ‘…I didn’t bring you here to rub your disdainful little nose in my financial success. Your presence here is a necessity.’
‘Now,’ he inserted coolly, handing her the platter of cold meat, ‘I suggest we eat, and then you can get down to work.’
Once, he’d told her she was necessary to his happiness; now, her expertise was the only thing he wanted from her. She swallowed convulsively, wishing her mind didn’t stray into the past, comparing it to the uncomfortable present. Another impulse came to cut and run. But Edward would not be pleased, and that was putting it mildly. Dexter was paying handsomely for her presence here.